Married Bliss
by Clorinda
Summary: Every night that she lived through, she would lie awake on her back and stare at the shadows that dotted the ceiling, and wish she were dead. The life of one Tokio Hajime. One shot


**Married Bliss**

**By** Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**: Angst/Drama

**Summary**: "Every night that she lived through, she would lie awake on her back and stare at the shadows that dotted the ceiling, and wish she were dead." The life of one Tokio Fujita.

* * *

_Love is temporary insanity curable by marriage_.

Ambrose Bierce

* * *

Dead.

Every night that she lived through, she would lie awake on her back and stare at the shadows that splayed about the ceiling, and wish she were dead. When he asked her about the dark circles under her eyes, she would dart into her room and cover it up with mascara.

It didn't stand out too badly against her bronzed skin, but he was just mercilessly observant.

(Bastard.)

Are you feeling alright? Aren't you looking a bit peaky this morning? Is there something you want me to get for you?

She hated _those_ especially. He pretended to care, he _always_ did, but she knew his heart was cold as ice. That he couldn't love anything that lived. Not her, certainly.

Not even himself.

(At least it wasn't personal.)

She hated him. The people in the street called her Fujta— _his_ name. But when she was alone in the night, she knew she was still Takagi. Still Tokio Takagi. She had never married him.

(Now, she knew at least why he liked to pretend.)

He had never loved her in his life— that was all she knew about him. Her own husband was a dark figure in a voluminous _shamma_ of mystery. He skirted his home for months at a stretch, and when she heard him in the living room after a year, she thought she could forgive him.

He had only come to shove a ragged orphan into her care.

And he certainly didn't give a damn.

She would pour out _sake_ for herself, copious amounts that spilled over the brim of the cup. She would raise it to her lips, murmuring "Cheers to the bride and groom," and draining it, pour out more. The walls would spin, and the floor would sway, and she'd stand on shaking knees, the rock in the sea.

Oh, she was better off dead. Because then _he'd_ be the one left alone and crying.

(But then again, he might not even notice.)

Hiccoughing, she slumped over the table. The night was dark through the open window, and the stars were spinning, flashing brightly like diamonds as they churned. Dead, dead, dead, dead ... it was swimming in her head, fighting to rise above the sea of intoxication.

(Why not?)

Rising, although she knew she would pitch over and fall, she pressed her hands against the tabletop, and stood up. The pressure overturned it, and the great heavy thing slid to the floor. With a horrible crash, the jug of _sake_ fell and broke.

The floor looked so slippery, shining with liquid. It looked like a lake. It looked very pretty.

Unsteadily, she stumbled towards the kitchen. Her head felt light, like it wasn't there, and at the same time, dizzy, like she was turning circles in the middle of the lake that was on the floor.

The great tin can was where she still remembered it. She unscrewed the cap quickly. Dead, dead, dead.

She must work fast, and it was getting harder to focus. The can was heavy to lift, and she hoisted it with both hands, staggering under the weight. Some of its contents splashed out.

Her hair felt wet and drenched.

Drawing in a deep breath to hold herself, she swung the can about. Liquid spurted out, but she couldn't see it very well. Dead, dead, dead, dead. _Die_ ... She threw it about herself, across everything in sight and reach.

(She made sure to splash a lot of it in his room.)

The can grew lighter in her arms, and she laughed and giggled as she danced through the house with it. Dead, dead, dead, dead ... With the strength of a madman, she flung it out the window. She saw the last of its contents shower her garden.

She stared around her, still unsteady and trembling. She wanted more _sake_, but the jug was broken. Her skin felt wet, and the cold plunged into her flesh. She felt so, so cold ... and then she saw the lamp.

Its flame was so bright, and she was sure that if she held her hands out to it, the fire would seep into her too.

And it did. It danced across her bare arms, and the front of her kimono. It danced and streamed and ravaged all it could find. It gripped her passionately, and she burned with strength she had not felt since the day she met Hajime.

* * *

Outside the violent orange inferno that was his house, kept away by an invisible barrier, Saito Hajime watched all that symbolised his tie to the mortal earth crumble away. He removed his cigarette from between his lips, and flicked it away.

Like the mercenary turning his back to the finished battle, he turned and walked away slowly, his smouldering golden eyes cold, hard and empty.

— **End** —


End file.
